


Selective Appetites

by LandOfMistAndSecrets



Series: (Octopath) Tumblr Prompt Fills & Ficlets (NSFW) [3]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Just Two Hot People Doing Hot People Things, No Strings Attached, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:36:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LandOfMistAndSecrets/pseuds/LandOfMistAndSecrets
Summary: Primrose has an intriguing proposition for Cyrus to consider. (He doesn't have to consider it for very long.)





	Selective Appetites

Cyrus held a mostly empty wineglass in one hand, and sat gazing into it as though it contained all the mysteries of the universe. Across from him, Primrose sat with her chin in her hands, watching him with a steady, curious gaze. Their companions had all departed on their own endeavors -- some out the door, and others, Cyrus had noted with interest, up the stairs -- and the two of them had selected a secluded little corner of the establishment, mindful of their privacy. Which was all well and good, because when Primrose said that she wished to discuss matters of a sensitive nature, she absolutely meant every word. 

He drained the remains of his wine, letting the flavor of it roll across his tongue. Primrose's eyebrows twitched just the tiniest bit, and simultaneously, her lips upturned into a knowing little smile. Almost a smirk, really. 

She knew he wasn't about to pass on her proposition lightly. She was, after all, a beautiful woman. He lifted his hands and loosened his collar, his movements slow and methodical, buying himself time to respond. 

"Take your time, professor," Primrose said, very seriously, though her smile remained exactly the same. It was a bit unsettling, actually, but he gave her a grateful nod. 

He wondered what Odette would say about this situation. Well, once she stopped _laughing_ , in any case. Most likely she would tell him to do as he liked, except she would use that knowing tone that suggested there was only one correct answer to that question, and she knew it better than he ever would. He could almost hear her voice, ringing with mirth in his head. _Cyrus,_ she'd say, her brows arched clear to her hairline, _if that woman doesn't fit the definition of_ want, _for you, you'd best stop crowing all this nonsense of yours about equitable attraction between the sexes. Not to put too fine a point on it, but that, my dear man, would be horse shit._

And then she'd turn a shoulder and swing her hips and exit whatever vicinity this imagined conversation was taking place in, leaving him to stew. 

"Would you like another glass to pass the time?" Primrose asked, all pleasantness, and Cyrus cleared his throat and held a hand up, palm first. 

"Thank you, but no." 

"I can pay." 

"Good heavens, Primrose, that's hardly the reason. Rather... I get the sense from the urgency of your suggestion that you would be interested in, ah. Formalizing the arrangement quite soon, and ..." 

"That's very sweet," Primrose said, and something in her face and tone _did_ soften, in a way that made his heart ache. "But I assure you, you won't be taking advantage of me." She grinned, flashing her teeth. "Unless you're afraid of the opposite, in which case, I apologize. The last thing I want is to make you... uncomfortable." 

"My dear lady, you could never," Cyrus assured her, which wasn't _precisely_ true... but it was true in the sense she was remarking on, so he hardly considered it a lie. 

Primrose ducked her head and laughed, low and throaty, the exact sort of sultry, promising laugh that could start a fire in near any man's veins. There was nothing genuine about it, and he _knew_ that, but his body responded all the same. His pulse quickened and his breath caught. She knew her craft very well, and he had nothing but respect for that. She lifted her head and met his eyes. "I think I could, if I put my mind to it. But, no. I just happen to know that with you, the best way to go about this sort of thing is to be _painfully_ direct. Call it wisdom gleaned from field research?" 

He laughed. "Oh, very good. Don't think I can't tell you're making fun of me, now." 

"You're a very pretty man," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "Your looks, your station, your age, and your bachelorhood... forget stolen tomes on profane rituals. You're a captivating enigma all on your own." 

"Hardly." He waved his hand. "I've courted plenty of perfectly wonderful ladies, I'll have you know. They all tired of me, eventually. It would seem I have... some number of undesirable habits, when it comes to evaluating my marriageable qualities." 

"Not to mention all of those scandalous dalliances with men." 

He raised an eyebrow at her. She tilted her head at him. 

"Don't tell me you're going to deny it," she said. 

"Of course not. I am just... not sure what to say, actually. You're right, of course. It's come up." He winced. "Mostly in the negative sense, as you say." 

"I suppose my question at this point would be whether I've misjudged the breadth of your... taste," she finished, somehow making the word sound positively filthy. His cheeks heated. He shifted in his seat. He wished he'd asked for another glass of wine, after all. 

"Not at all," he said, weakly. "In fact, I would say your judgement of me is practically spot on. Well done." 

She smiled. "So, then. What do you say? No attachments, no expectations. No evaluations of your _marriageable qualities._ Just two willing, attractive adults with selective appetites who are very, very tired of their own fingers, for the moment." 

He very nearly choked on his own spit. " _Primrose,_ " he gasped, heat climbing up his neck and igniting his face like a flash fire. He glanced instinctively about for anyone of import that might have overheard... which was silly, because they were half a world away from Atlasdam. He was nobody, here. 

"Really, professor," she grinned. "Are you _certain_ you don't want another glass?" 

"You know," he said, his voice still far too high. "I think you're quite right. One more, then, shall we?" 

"Whatever you like," she said, and he knew as well as anything that the words were in reference to far more than just the quantity of drink. 

* 

They had two more glasses each, in fact, and though they'd gone through them at what he considered a reasonable pace, his head was still swimming slightly when they stood. He braced himself on the edge of the table, inhaling slow and deep. Primrose sidled near and took his arm, wrapping herself against him like they were long time lovers, and not recent acquaintances about to embark on a possibly ill considered experiment. He appreciated her steadying presence, all the same. 

By the time they'd crested the stairs and stood outside the door to her room -- she'd insisted it had to be hers, for what reason, he couldn't say -- his heart was hammering, again. She opened the door and strode through, beckoning him along, and he followed her like she was a sorceress and him her helpless thrall. 

"Cyrus," she laughed, glancing over her shoulder. "Please do close the door." 

"Ah," he blinked. He turned back, all haste. "Of course."

She sat on the bed, watching him fumble his way through something as simple as closing a blasted door behind him. By the time he turned to face her again, her arms were crossed and she had adopted a thoughtful expression. 

"You seem nervous," she said. 

"Do I, now?" Cyrus swallowed. 

"Are you?" 

He sighed and gave her a sheepish nod. "A bit," he admitted. 

"Has it been so long since you were with a woman?" Primrose asked. There was no judgement in her tone, only curiosity, and that put him strangely at ease. He felt his shoulders relax, just a bit. 

"Yes, but it's not only that," he explained. "You see, my... encounters, with women. They rarely seem to go well. And I worry, I suppose, that you'll be disappointed, and that disappointment will naturally end this arrangement, which will then go on to sour our relationship in other, more insidious, less predictable ways." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it uncharacteristically. It was altogether too warm. 

"Ah," she said, softly. "This has happened before." 

"Once or twice," he said, weakly. 

"You know," she said, tone light, "I've been told that I'm a fine teacher in some respects a time or two, myself." 

He laughed. Gods, but she was very good at this. She always knew precisely what to say. Remarkable. "So then, if I should disappoint..." 

"How long has it been since you were a student?" 

"My dear lady, I like to believe that I am a student of sorts each and every day. Learning is a lifelong process, after all." 

She covered her mouth and laughed prettily into her hands. "May I ask... what did they find so disappointing, about you?" Her eyes flickered down, not so subtly at all, to gaze at a certain part of his anatomy. He blinked. 

"Oh, no! No, I assure you, it wasn't _that._ " 

"Oh?" Her gaze lifted, mercifully. He cleared his throat. 

"Not to my knowledge, no. It's just, I'm rather... well, how do I put this?" 

"I'd rather you spoke plainly, if that helps at all." 

"In that case -- hm. Submissive?" He winced. "Gods, that sounds so --" 

Primrose held up a hand, and he nearly bit his tongue in his haste to cut off the embarrassed flow of words. "Is that _all?_ " She seemed mystified. "Gods, Cyrus, I thought --" she covered her mouth again, laughing in a way that felt somehow more genuine than before. It shouldn't have been so endearing, considering she was laughing at _him_ , but before long he found himself laughing along with her, sidling meekly into the room with his mussed hair and his loose collar and his lukewarm confession still hanging in the air. "You know, I'm not even sure _what_ I thought. There are all sorts of reasons a man like you might be less than satisfying in bed, and I promise you, I've seen just about everything. So which one could you be? _Submissive?_ " She tossed her hair back. "Some women prefer that, you know." 

"If that's so, I've not yet had the pleasure to acquaint myself with any with the trait." 

" _Atlasdam_ ," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're wrong, in any case. You're here with me, aren't you?" 

He inclined his head. "You have me there," he said. 

"I do," she agreed, and then she held out her hands most expectantly. "But, Cyrus. I would really much rather have you over here." 

And, given such delightfully succinct instructions, he found himself practically tripping over himself in his eagerness to obey. 

* 

She took her time undressing him, teasing him with little spoken observations. _Such a pretty man,_ she'd sighed, tossing his cravat carelessly over one shoulder. _What are you hiding here,_ she'd demanded, tugging at his lapels. Before long, she'd peeled him nearly bare, layer by layer, her touches light but purposeful, expertly weighed to goad him into begging for more. This he resisted, even when her fingers paused just over the very obvious bulge in his breeches, pressing around him through the cloth like she was evaluating every inch of him. 

He took a breath and raised an eyebrow, instead. "Do I pass muster, then?" he asked, and she looked up at him and gave him a squeeze, laughing. She was very beautiful -- always, honestly -- but especially when she laughed so genuinely, something like very real delight shining through. 

"Let's see," she said, most wickedly, and then she set about working free his buttons and laces. 

When the last of it had fallen forgotten to the floor, and he stood bare before her without her having removed even a single article thus far, she gave him an exaggerated, evaluating look, scanning his body with her gaze from head to toe. She placed her hands on his shoulders, smoothing them over his skin, down his arms, his wrists, eventually linking her fingers lightly with his. 

"You pass," she said, finally. 

He smiled. "Such a relief to meet your exacting standards," he said. 

"Don't celebrate just yet," she cautioned him, pulling him gently forward. She seated herself on the foot of the bed. He stood before her, hands in hers, a question in his expression. "The most difficult tests are yet to come." 

"I'm told I'm a very good test taker, so long as the subjects are not too far beyond my field." 

Her lips twitched. She pulled his hand flat against the warm, smooth expanse of her stomach. The air went out of his lungs, just briefly, but he recovered himself quickly. This proved to be a very good thing, because almost immediately, her hand pressed insistently atop his, sliding his palm up her body, past the dip at her waist and over her ribs. There she paused, just beneath the generous swell of her breasts.

"Are we still within your general realm of study, Cyrus?" she asked. 

"Some questions, I think, deserve more in answer than mere words and hypotheticals." 

She leaned back, lifting her chin, exposing more of her long, lovely neck. "A practical answer, then." 

"A case study?" 

She laughed, quietly. "Touch me, Cyrus," she said. "Fingers, first. I'll tell you when I want more." 

Heat throbbed through him at the casual air of her command, and he nodded eagerly, sliding his fingers over the slip of ruffled silk and tasseled lace she wore so well. He teased her as thoroughly as he knew how, first in gentle circles over the silk, careful never to actually brush over the increasingly visible peaks. She slid her hands over his arms and sighed appreciatively, bolstering his confidence, and then squared her shoulders and lifted her arms overhead. 

"Off with it," she demanded, and he hastened to obey. The silk came off her easily, baring her to him at last, and he busied himself with touching her anew, tracing paths over her skin, edging tantalizingly near the darker skin around her nipples. Her breath came noticeably faster, her chest rising and falling, and finally she caught his fingers in hers and dragged them precisely where she wanted them. He laughed, softly, and she _tsked_ at him with no real irritation behind the sound, and he pleasured her with the pads of his thumbs, brushing them lightly over her. He tightened his fingers around first one and then the other in unpredictable, varied intervals. A soft sigh escaped her, and an accomplished thrill worked its way up his spine.

"Gods, but you are beautiful," he murmured. 

"Flatterer," she sighed. Her eyes caught his gaze. "I have little use for pretty words... but I can think of something more useful you could be doing with that tongue of yours." 

Heat washed through him. His hands stilled. His cock throbbed, but he knew perfectly well that it would be some time before anyone saw to that. Which only made him more eager for it, really. Horrible conundrum. He licked his lips and thought, distantly, about how she had never tried to kiss him, never asked for him to kiss her. It seemed... sad, in a way, but he wasn't so much a fool as to bring it up now. 

Instead, he leaned obediently in and brushed his lips lightly over the hollow of her throat, tracing the line of her collarbone, his fingers working all the while. She lifted her chin and arched her back, pressing herself eagerly to him, encouraging him in low, sultry murmurs. _Further,_ she whispered, her fingers tangling in his air. _More. Down, damn you. Cyrus! Stop teasing._ By the time he took one stiff nipple into his mouth, laving his tongue over the sensitive peak, she was pulling his hair hard enough to sting his scalp. A soft little moan escaped her, and he lost himself in the rhythm of it, fingers and tongue working in tandem, all in service to her pleasure. 

Eventually, she pulled his face away, and he blinked hazily up at her, awaiting further instruction. She bit her lip and seemed to consider something heavily, but before he could inquire, she pushed his head insistently downward and spoke a simultaneous command. "Lower," she said. 

She hardly had to elaborate. 

He kissed his way slowly down her body, sinking to his knees before the foot of the bed. She shifted and squirmed closer, setting her beautiful legs atop his shoulders, and he realized with a molten little swell inside him that she was already wet for him, just beyond the rich red silk of her skirts and minimal underthings. He pressed teasing little kisses against each of her thighs in turn, inching his way upward, and she murmured a soft, insincere rebuke, crossing her ankles between his shoulder blades and pushing him closer with her heels. The smell of her alone was at least as intoxicating as the wine. 

"Cyrus," she demanded, eventually. 

"Of course," he said, and only then did he press his lips to the damp silk between her legs, wetting it further with his eager tongue. He could feel the shape of her beneath the cloth, and he knew enough to navigate himself with passable aplomb. One of her hands reacquainted itself with the now thoroughly mussed tangle of his hair, pulling hard, and he flicked his eyes up the length of her body just in time to see her slide her other hand over one breast, teasing her own nipples one after the other between her fingers. He moaned softly against the heat of her, and she answered him in kind. 

He dragged his hands over her hips, hooking his fingers in the band around her waist. He made an inquisitive sound, and she squeezed her legs around him once, and then lifted them off to give him the access he needed. "Yes," she gasped. "Now." 

He hummed his assent, pulling it all free, sliding the garments off her body and down her legs while she wiggled atop the sheets to assist. He dropped the clothes every bit as carelessly as she had his, and she laughed at him in a most gratifyingly breathless manner. Then she set her legs back atop his shoulders, hauling him in close once more, and he leaned in, all too eager to please. 

"In a way," she said, and he could hear the way her voice vibrated, straining to remain as even as possible, "You can think of this like a final exam, hm?" 

He laughed into her soft auburn curls, and then licked a slow stripe down her center, just barely parting her folds with the tip of his tongue. She shivered around him. He heard her sigh. He flattened his tongue and tasted her again, deeper, pressing his nose into her pulsing heat. She gasped and squirmed her hips, and he followed the motions as best he could, chasing a certain rhythm over the sweet little nub at her very center. 

"Oh, very good," she moaned, and he felt a certain amount of pride both at the compliment and at the way she let herself fall back onto the bed sheets, every glorious part of her exposed and open to him, her eyes squeezed shut and her face locked with pleasure. Just as he could plainly see the evidence of her arousal, he could taste it, too, hot and heady and delicious. He opened his mouth and pressed greedily into her, teasing her with lips and tongue, listening to the cadence of her shallow breathing, feeling his cock throb with unfulfilled need each time she moaned her pleasure. Her fluids coated his tongue and ran down his chin, and still he kept on, pressed so tight against her he could barely breathe, himself. It didn't matter. The lightheadedness was part of the pleasure. 

Eventually, he felt her tense around him, heard her breathing change just so, felt her back arch up off the bed, and he sucked in a quick breath and held it, wrapping his lips around her swollen clitoris, lavishing that spot with all the attention he could muster. She gasped his name at the peak of her pleasure, and he closed his eyes and stopped only when the bed creaked and she pulled herself away with a string of whispered curses. He opened his eyes. She slid backward on the bed, her skin covered now in a sheen of sweat, her hair a damp tangle around her head. 

"Sweet Aelfric," she said, her voice still ever so slightly uneven. "The women of Atlasdam are -- _idiots._ " 

He laughed, discreetly ducking his head to wipe his mouth on the corner of the sheet. "I take it then that you are satisfied?" 

"Hmm," she said, which was, frankly, not an answer at all. He rested his arms on the bed and leaned forward, chin atop them, still kneeling the floor. 

"Not precisely the definitive affirmation I was hoping for," he said. 

"Cyrus..." she tilted her head, a little wrinkle forming between her brows. "Did I tell you to wipe your face?"

He flushed crimson, momentarily at a loss. "You didn't," he had to concede. "I do hope that wasn't a _critical_ mistake?" 

Primrose shook her head and pulled a few loose pins out of her hair, letting the curls fall over her shoulders. She narrowed her eyes at him, gave the pins a considering look, and then set them gently aside on the beside table. 

"As much as I enjoy your current position, I must insist that you join me here." She patted the mattress before her, and seated herself among the pillows like a queen upon a throne. 

"To discuss the matter of reparations, I suppose?" He stood and climbed atop the bed, joining her near the head of it, heart beating a distracting rhythm in his ears. His own body was making its desires painfully clear to him, but he dared not even consider that. She seemed to, however, her eyes flickering purposefully downward, and a pulse of heat and eager desire went through him at her considering expression. 

"Yes," she murmured, finally. She lifted her gaze, pinning him with it. "Reparations." She gestured at him, palms flat. "Lay back." 

"Hm. As you wish." He moved to do so, feeling strangely apprehensive. When he was flat on his back before her, his head perilously near the damp spot their earlier activities had left on the sheets, she got to her own knees and looked down at him, considering. He shivered at the obvious judgement in her gaze, the consideration writ clear in the smirk on her lips. This was a woman who knew _exactly_ what she wanted, and who would tell him what that was in no uncertain terms, but only at her leisure. 

It was a new and frankly _dangerously_ enjoyable experience. 

"I think the only fair way to proceed is to get you back in a... comparable state to before." She crawled over him, straddling him, sliding up over his legs and past his aching, straining cock completely. "Does that sound fair to you, Cyrus?" 

He blinked. She leaned over him, her hair falling like a curtain around him. He met her gaze and grinned up at her, as wickedly as he could. "More, already? You _have_ been eager for this, haven't you?" 

"I told you," she said, returning his grin with one of her own. "I am so, _so_ tired of _fingers._ " 

"Then let me give you something else," he said, and she smiled and leaned in and pressed a small, chaste little kiss against his lips. 

It felt significant, somehow, but he knew better than to ask. 

Then she was all business, moving to straddle his face, holding herself up on her knees above him. He lifted his hands to steady her hips, and she blinked slowly down at him once, twice, and then moved herself into place with a soft little sigh. "Slowly, now," she said. "But not _too_ slowly." 

He thought he knew what she meant, and he did his best to acquiesce. 

Eventually, he had her worked back up into full arousal, gasping and moaning, moving her hips in shallow little thrusts into his mouth and against his desperate, working tongue. Her legs quivered around him, her body shivered, and it took longer, this time, much longer. "Yes," she gasped, as he lapped into her folds, reveling in the taste of her, the scent, the desperate sound of her voice. His fingers dug into her hips, her hands came down to cover his, and she moved herself in rhythm over his tongue, breathing hard, a little moan escaping her each time he dragged himself over her center. "Gods," she moaned, "Oh, gods, _Cyrus_ ," and then her eyes flew open and she pulled his hands roughly off her hips. 

He made an inquisitive noise, trapped and breathless against her. 

"Touch yourself," she ordered him. He made another small, desperate sound, and she laughed, reaching down between her legs to brush a sweaty lock of hair out of his blinking eyes. "Touch yourself," she repeated, "and don't stop what you're doing. I want us to finish together." 

He nodded, she leaned forward, and he redoubled his efforts with lips and tongue even as he lifted his own knees behind her and wrapped his own fingers around himself, stroking eagerly. Delicious heat and distracting pleasure pulsed through him, and it took all his concentration to keep his tongue focused on its task, pleasuring Primrose as she rocked herself against him, rising and falling in motion over his busy mouth. She gasped sweet encouragements at him, moaned his name and pulled his hair, squeezed her eyes shut and warned him that she was close, so close, so very, very close. 

" _Cyrus,_ " she gasped, finally, her entire body shuddering with the force of her euphoria, her thighs locking his head into place between her legs while she rode the waves of pleasure out. Simultaneously, he gripped himself hard and ran a thumb over his own most sensitive places -- over the wet slit at the tip of his cock, down and around the underside, teasing the head of it and moaning into Primrose's tight, squeezing heat. "Cyrus, oh _gods,_ now," Primrose cried, flooding him with her own fluids, smothering him in her delight. It was heaven. He came in soundless, agonizing rapture, releasing without the ability to suck in even the slightest breath with which to give voice to his own pleasure. 

She released him before she could _actually_ smother him, but it was a near thing. Blackness crowded the edge of his vision before she recovered herself enough to move, and he gasped deeply while above him, Primrose's shoulders slumped and her head bowed, her hair tickling over his bare chest. 

"Gods," he murmured, when he had breath enough to speak. 

"Oh, agreed," Primrose said, and then she lifted her head and met his eyes, and they laughed breathlessly together, her hands resting on his chest, his thumbs moving in slow circles over her legs, her hips, her shapely arse. 

"So," Cyrus said, eventually, breaking the comfortable silence that filled the space their laughter left behind. "You haven't told me, yet. Do I pass?" 

She reached up and touched his face, her own features softening even so slightly in that increasingly familiar way they sometimes did. "You pass," she said, firmly, and then she traced her thumb over his lips, still wet with her pleasure. "But, you know... a wise man once told me, learning _is_ a lifelong sort of activity." 

"Aha. Wise words, indeed." 

She smiled at him. He nodded up at her. "Next time," she said, her expression taking on a distracting, devious affect, "Maybe I'll let you have something other than your fingers, too." 

His fingers stilled on her skin, and he peered up at her, aghast. "Good heavens," he said, playing back the events of the evening. "You _planned_ that, didn't you?" 

But she only blinked down at him, lips twitching upward, the very portrait of absolutely feigned innocence.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a request received on my blog, which you can find on Tumblr: [@sealticge](http://sealticge.tumblr.com)


End file.
